What's your safe word?

Eleanor's POV

The music pounded through the walls like thunder. The bass, the lights, the smell of smoke and perfume — all scream loud but not louder than my thoughts. it wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to be this.

"Hey, beautiful, dance with me," a voice slurred near my ear.

I turned, sharp, gripping the man’s wrist before I even realized what I was doing. His smirk faltered. "Let go," he hissed.

"Don’t you ever touch me," I said, squeezing harder. My voice shook, not from fear — from fury. Every cell in my body burned with it. I wanted to hurt someone. I wanted someone to feel what I was feeling.

Hands grabbed me from behind. Two, maybe three. The man stumbled back, cursing, as security rushed in.

"Ma’am, you need to calm down."

"Take your hands off me!" I yelled, jerking free, my voice breaking. But they didn’t listen. They never do.

They dragged me out through the back door, where the sound of the club fell away into the cold Las Vegas night.

The door slammed shut. Silence.

And then I laughed — a broken, hollow laugh that scraped my throat raw.

I sat on the curb, dress wrinkled, heels discarded beside me, clutching the half-empty bottle I’d smuggled out like it was oxygen. Cars rushed by, blurring into streaks of color.

"Twenty years," I muttered to the street. "Twenty years, James."

I took a long swig, the alcohol burning down my throat, lighting up the ache in my chest.

"You sly bastard," I whispered. "You said IVF was safer. You said you wanted it planned, perfect, special." My laugh cracked. "You just wanted control. You wanted a child — your child — but not mine."

Tears spilled hot down my cheeks. I pressed a hand over my mouth, shaking.

"My daughter," I said, the word breaking apart as it left me. "My Sophie… my baby girl. Did you ever even belong to me?"

A choked sob escaped before I could stop it.

I lifted the bottle again. My reflection in a passing car window caught my eye — mascara streaked, hair wild, eyes swollen and unrecognizable.

"This is why I stopped drinking," I whispered to no one. "Because when I do… I don’t think. I don’t stop."

The city roared around me. I tipped the bottle back, swallowing until the world spun.

And somewhere, in the haze of tears and whiskey and pain — I stopped caring who I was supposed to be.

The wind bit at my face as I staggered down the street, heels in my hand, bottle half-empty. The neon lights of the strip flashed like cruel reminders that the world didn’t stop — not even when your heart did.

"I need to go back," I muttered, voice thick. "Before I do something stupid."

The hotel wasn’t far, just a few blocks away. My vision swayed, but my legs kept moving.

Was I not enough?

The question came uninvited, sharp and merciless.

Not enough to love. Not enough to trust. Not enough to keep him faithful.

James used to call me perfect. Now I realized I was just convenient.

And Rachel…

Rachel, with her soft voice, her endless flattery, her fake sympathy.

My best friend. My sister in everything but blood.

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Should I give them a taste of their own medicine? Sleep with someone. Take pictures. Send them to him. Let him see what betrayal feels like."

I stopped walking and slapped my own cheek lightly, shaking my head.

"Get a grip, Eleanor. You’re a mother," I whispered, forcing the words through trembling lips. "Sophie's innocent. She didn’t ask for any of this."

But God, it hurt. It hurt so bad I wanted to scream.

By the time I reached my suite, my hands were shaking. I fumbled with the key card, pressing it wrong twice before noticing something strange.

The door… was already open.

I blinked, confusion cutting through the haze.

"Did housekeeping forget to close it?" I muttered, pushing it gently. The lights were dim, soft jazz humming low from somewhere inside.

I stepped in. Everything looked the same — the same furniture, the same scent of luxury — but something felt off. The air was thicker, warmer, and the faint, masculine cologne that lingered wasn’t mine.

Then I heard the sound of running water stop.

And he appeared.

A tall man stepped out of the bedroom, steam curling around him. Long, damp hair clung to his neck. A towel hung low on his hips, water sliding down a torso sculpted like it belonged to sin itself. His skin glistened, and beneath the soft light, I saw the striking complex tattoos wrapping his arms — sleeves of ink that ended at a butterfly resting just below his neck.

I froze.

My heart stopped.

He looked up, eyes dark and sharp, and for a second, I thought I’d passed out on the street and wandered into a dream.

"Holy hell," I whispered, swallowing hard. My brain screamed to move, to speak, to explain — but all I could do was stare.

"This," I murmured under my breath, "is exactly why I don’t drink."

I don’t remember deciding to move. One moment I was standing there, watching him, the next my jacket slipped from my shoulders and hit the floor.

The air felt heavy, hot. My pulse drummed in my ears.

He was still standing there, droplets of water sliding down his skin, the faint curl of steam drifting from the bathroom behind him. His eyes were closed, his expression calm, almost detached, like a man waiting for something inevitable.

My steps faltered as I came closer, close enough to breathe in the sharp mix of soap and cologne. The scent was intoxicating. Everything about him was.

What am I doing? I should stop. I should run.

But I didn’t.

I lifted my hand and let my fingertips brush over the hard lines of his chest. His skin was warm, his muscles tightening under my touch. A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold.

I looked up and saw his lips releasing a sigh, probably pleased by my touch.

Oh, this felt real. His body. The heat. The slickness on my palm.

Then he shifted, and my eyes dropped to his man bulge. It's hard, thick, long, and straining against the towel.

I swallowed a choke. What the hell was this Adonis doing in my dream? Alcohol will be the death of me.

"Can I pet it?" The words slipped out, small and breathy, my hand hovering just above the towel.

Then his eyes opened.

Emerald green — sharp, unflinching, and suddenly very awake. The air between us shifted, thick with something I couldn’t name.

A deep groan rolled from his lips—full, red, sinful. His voice came low, dark velvet against my skin.

"What’s your safe word, mama?"

Confusion and arousal tangled inside me, a dizzying, sinful mix.

My throat bobbed. "W–what do you mean?" I stammered, breath shaky.

His lips curved, darkness stretching into something wicked. "I’ll give you one," he murmured, voice rough silk. "Don't. Stop."

Before my fogged mind could catch up, he caught both my wrists, lifting them above my head.

The wall met my back with a soft thud.

My breath hitched.

The sudden dominance, his sinful heat pressing close, his grip firm was foreign. James never took sex this far. Never made me feel this raw, this small, this alive. Probably because he was fucking my best friend.

Without thinking, I gripped his wet hair, yanking his head down until our lips crashed together that could set my body on fire. His lips glided over mine as he grabbed my thigh, giving it a squeeze before pulling my leg up and over until it's right above his ass.

"Oh—Fuck —," a pleased whimper escapes my lips, as he kissed the corner of my cold lips, slowing dragging his tongue to the indent of the middle of my lips and biting it down.

"You taste so divine, mama," he murmured against my lips.

I gasped, feeling pressing my legs tight

Just then, he slide his tongue past my already parted lips, stroking it along with my limb one. 

"I'm going to fuck your sweet pussy so the way I'm fucking your mouth." He says in a groan, pushing me closer to him.

My lower abdomen twisted, watching his emerald eyes glistened in my hotel room. 

I bit my lower lips already wanting more. Anything to take away the pain I feel right now.